


certainty

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Established Relationship, M/M, Size Kink, Slight D/s Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam wants to try something new; Dean complies, in his own way.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winchestersinthedrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/gifts).



> Originally posted on my tumblr, zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com, on October 16, 2016.

Sam wants to and Dean’s not sure, because what if Sam doesn’t know it’s him—and Sam says, _I’ll know it’s you, how would I ever not know it’s you_ , and Dean says, _but you might —_, and Sam says, _well, you’ll just have to talk to me, make sure I know_ , and Dean says, _you know I’m not good at that_ , and Sam says, _yeah, well_ , and he says, _I trust you_ , and Dean doesn’t have anything he can say against that.

It’s a few weeks, after that. A werewolf in Tuscaloosa. Haunted preschool in Spokane. They’re at home, in the bunker. Dean made chicken-fried steak while Sam finished writing up his notes from the last hunt, and they eat in the kitchen while _Quadrophenia_ plays in the library, talking under the music about some appalling shark movie Dean saw that Sam flat-out refuses to watch —sharks in an _avalanche, Dean, no way_. Sam washes the dishes and Dean grabs them both their third beers, and then Sam turns away from wiping the table down and Dean’s —he’s right there, looking at Sam with their beers uncapped in his one hand. He’s just—considering, head tilted a little to one side, eyes steady on Sam’s. Involuntarily, Sam smiles, and catches Dean’s free hand to reel him in. He plants his ass on the edge of the table and spreads his knees a little, and for once he’s shorter than Dean, so when he slings an arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him close Dean has to bend his head down so that they can kiss—and then, then they’re kissing, and most everything else doesn’t matter so much, then.

Dean fumbles his hand out of Sam’s and runs it up Sam’s back, light, until his fingers are buried in Sam’s hair at the very top of his spine, curling in. The slight pull just makes it better when Dean bites a little at his lower lip, when he slicks a soft tongue over the same spot. Sam slips his hands under Dean’s flannel, under his t-shirt, so he can get a grip on the smooth skin of his waist. He hums into Dean’s mouth. _Good, Sammy,_ Dean says, mumbled up against his lips, and Sam smiles again, kisses over Dean’s jaw to that spot under his ear that he likes, and Dean shivers. Sam scrapes his teeth over it, says, _You want —?_ and Dean pulls a little harder at Sam’s hair, makes a little _ah_ sound when Sam pulls him in closer, tilts his hips so they’re brushing together, but then Dean says, _C’mere_. Sam lifts his head up and Dean kisses him again, not hard but thorough, and then he licks his own lips right up against Sam’s mouth and that’s —that’s distracting, is what it is, but then Dean says _Sammy,_ and he says, _oh man,_ and he says, _Hang on,_ _I’ll meet you in your room, take the beers and I’ll be right there_ , and Sam—he leans in and sucks one more kiss against the pink, wet curve of Dean’s mouth, but then he gets up, he goes.

In his room, he shucks his flannel shirt and kicks off his boots, and he brushes his teeth because that’s just polite, and then he washes away the taste of the toothpaste with half his beer, and he’s just about to start wondering what the hell’s taking so long when Dean appears in the doorway, and Sam opens his mouth but—Dean steps into the room and he’s holding—that’s a scarf.

Who knows where Dean got it. It’s dark—not quite black, maybe a really dark blue, but Sam can’t tell with the dim light in here. Dean’s watching his face. Sam puts his beer down, careful, on his desk, and Dean licks his lips and he crosses the few steps between them and he lifts up one hand and tucks Sam’s hair behind his ears, one side at a time, soft, and he raises up and kisses Sam once on the mouth, and then he lifts Sam’s chin and Sam closes his eyes and then Dean wraps the length of cloth around Sam’s head, doubles it, triples it, and then ties the knot around the back of Sam’s neck and—and it’s dark. Not just a little, not amateurish—there’s absolutely no hint of light coming through, and Sam sucks in a breath and then he’s being spun around, quick by the shoulders, so that the world rotates not-quite-pleasantly and he’s actually pretty disoriented when he stops and he doesn’t know what to do, but then Dean says, “Okay, Sammy?” low and close, and—yeah.

“Yeah,” Sam says. He breathes in, slow and deep, the air rushing coolly in his nose.

He can still hear Roger Daltrey, echoing down through the hallways. The scarf is nice, some kind of wool, and it’s soft over his nose and cheekbones, covering his ears but not so much that he can’t hear. He shifts his weight a little on his socked feet, and that bruised twinge in his hip where the werewolf had thrown him against the fence is faint, hardly hurts at all. He’s not dizzy, not really, but he doesn’t quite know which way he’s facing. He flexes his hands, at his sides, and bites the inside of his cheek, but just when he’s about to ask—

“Lookin’ good, Sammy,” he hears. Dean’s behind him, then. Rough-warm fingers touch on his exposed triceps, trail down the back of his arms over his elbows, then circle loosely over his forearms. “Not as bulked up anymore, huh.”

He shakes his head. The dangling end of the scarf brushes softly over the little space on his neck left between the ends of his hair and the collar of his t-shirt.

“Let’s get this shirt off,” Dean says, and then hands are skimming it up his sides, and helping him lift it carefully off over his head so nothing shifts. Dean takes it out of his loose grip and then there’s the soft flop of cloth hitting the ground, somewhere. The hands drag over Sam’s shoulders, a hard warm pressure that pushes down the line of his back, digging pleasantly in either side of his spine. He lets out a noise when thumbs push into the muscles at the small of his back, and Dean makes a humming sound back at him. The low warmth that had just been waiting in his belly deepens a little and he finds that he’s breathing through an open mouth, pulling in fast breaths already.

Dean presses in close, soft t-shirt brushing over Sam’s back, his breath coming moist and warm against one of Sam’s shoulders. Those hands slip over Sam’s hips, fingers tucked just inside the waistband of his jeans, and then there’s a clinking sound as Dean undoes his belt, blind, hands working familiarly with his thumb brushing up along the line of hair under Sam’s navel. Once it’s open Dean pushes a little at Sam’s hip with one hand, and Sam turns as he’s urged, his belt slipping out of its loops as he rotates, and then there’s another thump, leather and metal hitting the concrete floor. Hands catch his biceps and he’s shuffling backward, trusting—and then his calves hit the mattress and he’s oriented, suddenly, and he’s pushed down so he’s sitting. He waits there, hands fisted against his thighs, and there’s another brush and thump of cloth, the buzz of a zip. Dean’s stripping. 

A hand closes around his jaw and he tilts his head into it, automatically. A thumb brushes over his stubble, over the faint dimple in his chin and up, rubbing hard just under his lip. “Lookin’ good,” Dean says again, quietly, in that dark-down-deep voice of his, and then his thumb slips into Sam’s mouth. Sam slicks his tongue over the faint familiar salt of it, closes his lips and sucks, softly, just once, and Dean makes a low sound and Sam—oh, God. The warmth in his stomach knots up, turns into a hot pulse of want in his balls.

“Lean back a little,” Dean says, thumb slipping out, and Sam does, leans back on his hands with his fingers digging into his blanket. Hands slide down his chest, one thumb dragging his own spit down his skin, and the palms catch over Sam’s nipples where they’re drawn up into tight points. He sucks in a sharp breath, but the hands don’t pause. His own jeans get undone, and he lifts his hips to help when Dean drags them and his boxer-briefs off all at once. The hands pick up his feet and peel his socks off, one at a time, and when that’s done Dean holds one of Sam’s bare feet in his hand. He must be kneeling in front of Sam, but Sam can’t tell, not really.

A slow, audible intake of breath. “I like that you’re big,” Dean says, and Sam—he flinches, kind of, his stomach tightening. A slow swirl of thumb over the knob of Sam’s ankle. “Everywhere. Even if you’re not all—beefcake, or whatever, anymore. You’re still so…” The hand smooths up Sam’s leg, up his calf, along the side of his thigh, prickling along the hair. He’s tense, his hands fisted into the blanket, and even so he flinches again when Dean’s hand brushes over his dick where it’s laying heavily along his thigh. Dean ignores it, though, his fingers dragging along the inside of Sam’s thigh now so he spreads his legs more, and then his balls are taken in a steady grip. He tips his knees wider, his head falling back. His breath is very loud, rasping in and out of his chest. He’s starting to feel unhinged.

“Big here, too,” Dean says, and he moves somehow, because now there’s warm skin pressed up against one of Sam’s legs. His balls are rolled, slowly, carefully. Sam feels like he’s going to come out of his skin. “Freaked me out, how much I liked that. Like the way they feel. Especially when you’re this turned on, like they’re—swelled up. Building up a big load, huh.”

“Dean,” Sam says, barely audible on a breath, but Dean says, “I got you, Sammy,” and he says, “Lay back on the bed for me,” and Sam does, he shoves his way backward as best he can with his muscles feeling as shuddery-weak as they do, and eventually he’s flat on his back, legs spread a little and his knees popped up, because he doesn’t quite fit, but that’s okay. There’s a tip as Dean’s weight hits the bed and the box-spring creaks, but then there’s hot skin over Sam’s, and Dean must be—he must be kneeling, his ass settled near the tops of Sam’s thighs. Sam’s hands settle on the smooth skin of his hips, fumbling a little to find their usual place. Dean grabs his right hand, though, pulls it so that Sam has to sit up a little, and then his hand’s being pushed down, around, and his fingers slip into the crack of Dean’s ass and slide down, and—oh, fuck, hot-slippery skin, already a little soft.

“Got myself ready, a little,” Dean says, and Sam’s hips jerk, his dick aching. Dean slips a hand under the back of Sam’s neck and his voice is lower, closer, when he says, “Sammy, need you to finish me up, stretch me out.” Sam presses two fingers in, twists and pushes up in one smooth motion and the noise Dean makes—oh, he’s used to being able to watch Dean’s face when he does this, and it’s—it’s so _warm_ inside, slick with lube, the soft vulnerable insides parting reluctantly around Sam’s fingers. Dean’s hand clenches in Sam’s hair, grabbing the end of the scarf too, and Sam pulls back a little and works in a third finger, maybe faster than he should, his left hand clenched too-tight around Dean’s hip, but then there’s a gasp and Dean groans, low in his chest, and then he says, “Big hands, too,” with a low tremor of laughter in his voice. Sam curls his fingers, the muscle loosening up only slowly over the bumps of his knuckles, and Dean shudders, says with his voice stripped raw, “Sometimes think about —if you just kept going, if you—if you put your whole hand in,” and Sam actually gasps at the—the image of that, rising like a dark shock behind his eyes, and Dean clenches tight around his fingers and leans down and kisses him, finally, and Sam’s clumsy, just breathing open-mouthed as Dean licks into him, and then Dean’s mumbling against his face, lips brushing wetly against Sam’s cheek just below the blindfold, saying, “Sometimes I wish—wish I could just have you like this, all the time—wish I could just use you, your hands and your mouth and your _dick_ , oh god, Sammy, I love your dick, wish I could—” and he wraps a hand around it, his fingers slippery hot and pushing it up against Sam’s own belly. Sam’s hips jerk again and Dean lifts up, says, “I’m ready, I’m ready,” and then the world tilts, Sam’s fingers slipping out of him and Dean pushing, flipping them over in bed. Sam catches his own weight, awkward and blind and suddenly on his knees, but then there’s a shift on the mattress and those are Dean’s hands on his waist, Dean wriggling into place with his thighs spreading around Sam’s legs, and he says, “Sammy,” mineshaft-deep. Sam braces himself, picks up Dean’s hips and hauls them into place over his thighs, and a hand closes over his dick and helps guide him as he pushes forward and—and oh, the slippery heat of it, the warm wet tight shove _in_ and the way it just holds him, the way _Dean_ holds him. He lets his head drop back, shoves his hips forward all the way in one movement because that’s how Dean likes it, and —”Fuck, Sammy,” Dean says, strained, a crack right down the center of his voice. He doesn’t sound hurt, and his hips lift up, grind into Sam’s touch, and Sam—he feels like he’s on another world. He’s awash in it, in the tight clutch of his brother, blind and feeling everything a little higher, bright skittering under his skin, and then he’s fucking Dean, just like that.

His pulse is pounding in his throat, his mouth wide open so he can get enough air. His hips are snapping, steady, shoving himself deep and deep and deep again, and Dean lets out a long, shuddery moan, his thighs shaking along Sam’s sides. “God, right there,” Dean says, “that’s perfect, just like that,” and Sam does as he’s told. He could do this for a year, for the rest of his life.

Then Dean says, getting it out shaky and stuttering, his breath lurching in his chest every time Sam shoves in, but he keeps going, he keeps talking, he says, “Anytime, anything you want, Sammy, you hear me—anything you think of, whatever you wanna try, because you—you and me, that’s it—that’s every—whatever you want me to do I’ll do it, I promise, Sammy, please, I swear I’ll—” and he sounds—oh, _fuck_ , _Dean_ , and Sam leans forward, puts out a hand blind and finds the headboard and braces his weight against it and he slams in, and in, and Dean cuts off with a yell and Sam screws himself deep and his whole body clenches tight as a fist and then he’s coming, with a shout, balls aching with it. There’s a shove of a hand between them and then he can feel Dean jerking off, and while he’s still gasping and his hips are still working out the last of it, unloading deep into Dean with his brain crackling static, Dean sucks in a strangled breath and then there’s hot wet against Sam’s belly, his chest, and he shudders all over, and then hands are scrabbling at his head and the blindfold is shoved off over his forehead, tossed aside, and Dean puts both hands in his hair and looks straight up at him with wet wide eyes and says, _“Sammy.”_

Later—much later, after clean-up and a drink, after they shove the soaked blanket out from underneath them and lay together, sweat cooling—Dean puts his head on Sam’s chest, laid out along his side. His hand is flat on Sam’s stomach. _That wasn’t what I expected_ , Sam says, after a while, and Dean huffs a laugh against his skin, says, _Hope I didn’t disappoint_ , and Sam rolls his eyes, puts a hand on the back of Dean’s neck. _I hope you know,_ he says, trying to sound casual _, that it goes both ways._ Dean hums in question, and Sam says, _Anything. I swear_ , and Dean twists around and looks up at him, eyes wide, before he catches himself and puts his head right back into place. _Yeah, okay_ , he says, with a shrug, but when Sam covers his hand where it’s resting on his belly, Dean twines their fingers together.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/151876135964/certainty)


End file.
